


England Would Fall

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-26
Updated: 2017-01-25
Packaged: 2018-08-17 08:47:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8137795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: My version of Season 4. Moriarty's plan to burn the heart out of Sherlock continues posthumously.





	1. Chapter 1

“ _It’s raining… it’s pouring… Sherlock…. Is boring…”_

 

Moriarty’s voice echoed ominously across the cliffs, hitting Sherlock like a blow to the head. His pulse quickened. _It’s not you. It can’t be you._

“ _You’re going to love being dead, Sherlock…”_

A cold sweat broke out across his brow _._ He moved closer to the precipice, staring into the churning sea beneath him.

 

“ _Haven’t you figured it out yet? It’s not the fall that kills you…_ ”

 

Sherlock edged still closer to the brink, his foot poised above the drop.

“Sherlock?”

 

Sherlock vaulted up violently. His sheets were tangled around him, and a cold sheen of sweat coated his skin. _A dream. Of course. Idiot._ “Mrs. Hudson.”

 

“I know you said I’m not to come in your bedroom dear, but I got worried! John and Mary are coming round to check in again. Remember?”

 

“Yes, yes, fine.” He stared pointedly at Mrs. Hudson until she left the flat in a huff, muttering about manners.

 

 _Disturbing dreams are hardly surprising, coming down off a high like that._ He groaned. He would have to endure at least another hour of disappointed looks from John, and they were _bound_ to mess up his sock index.

Sherlock dressed quickly and put on a kettle for tea. A knock at the door informed him that John and Mary were right on schedule. John entered wearing the characteristic expression of disapproval that he reserved for Sherlock’s drug relapses. Mary followed, dropping at once into John’s old chair.

 

“Do I need to search the flat, Sherlock?”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “No, John.”

 

“He was about to leave for Eastern Europe. He would have taken anything he had here,” Mary pointed out.

 

John glanced at his wife, seeming to accept the truth of her words. Silence fell between them. Sherlock awkwardly poured the tea. He sank into his chair, grasping his own steaming mug in front of him with no real intention of drinking it.

 

John broke the silence. “It could have killed you, Sherlock. You could have died.”

 

“As I told you, John, controlled usage—“

 

John cut him off. “No, Sherlock. I’m not going to listen to this. Not this time. Nothing justifies this.”

 

“ _Nothing?”_ Sherlock scoffed. “The most dangerous man in existence is reaching out from beyond the grave with a cryptic threat and you’re worried about my _drug usage_? I needed it to help me process the message.”

 

“You were already high when you got on the plane,” John said. His voice was dangerously quiet. “Mycroft said so.”

 

Sherlock opened his mouth to retort but abruptly closed it. _I was leaving. I thought I’d never see you again. I thought I was going on a suicide mission._ Even high, he’d been unable to summon the courage to tell John everything. Instead, he’d spouted some utter nonsense about Sherlock being a girl’s name.

 

Silence fell again. This time, Mary broke it. “You said you knew what he was going to do next?”

 

“Obviously. He’ll need to reestablish his London operatives. That little message was a call to action as much as it was a warning.”

 

John’s brow furrowed. “But you said you destroyed his network.”

 

Sherlock grimaced. “I may have been…incomplete.” The words felt like poison in his mouth. Over the last 24 hours since the video, however, he’d been forced to accept this truth. John’s eyes widened in surprise. _A network as extensive as his, someone was bound to slip through the cracks. What have I been doing? Distracted by Magnussen. Wedding planning, for Christ’s sake._

Another knock sounded at Sherlock’s door. _Mycroft. He always knocks like that._ Sighing, he rose to answer it. Mycroft entered the flat, armed with his ever-present umbrella. He nodded at each of them, acknowledging them with a formal “Mr. and Mrs. Watson. Sherlock.”

 

John and Mary murmured greetings but Sherlock stayed silent.

 

“I’m sure the two of you wouldn’t mind if I asked for a private word with my brother?” Mycroft’s tone left no room for negotiation.

 

John looked as if he wanted to argue, but Mary placed her hand on his arm. “We’ll be back later, Sherlock, alright?”

 

Sherlock nodded. John and Mary left the flat, leaving a ringing silence behind them. Mycroft sat in John’s recently vacated chair. Sherlock twitched in irritation.

 

“Hello, brother mine.”

 

“Spare me, Mycroft. Why have you come?”

 

Mycroft reached into the pocket of his coat, bringing out a small leather-bound book. Sherlock eyed it curiously while trying to keep up the pretense of disinterest.

 

“Your diary?” Sherlock asked scathingly.

 

Mycroft did not deign to reply. “Did you think I threw away all those little _lists_ you’ve left for me over the years?”

 

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “Sentiment? From you?”

 

“Not sentiment, Sherlock. _Data._ Data that confirm what I’ve been telling you all these years. _Caring is not an advantage_.”

 

“What are you on about?”

 

“Do you know how many lists I have here, Sherlock?”

 

Sherlock shrugged. _Thirty-seven, if he’s kept them all._

 

“Thirty-seven.”

 

“And?”

 

“Each of these little _incidents_ was brought on by _caring._ ”

 

Sherlock’s pulse quickened. “You know why I use, Mycroft. It heightens my thought processes.”

 

“That’s the story you tell everyone, isn’t it? The clever junkie detective. How quaint.”

 

“Make your point or leave.”

 

“Do you know what I call this notebook, Sherlock?”

 

Sherlock stayed silent. Mycroft opened the little leather-bound book to reveal the first page, across which he’d scrawled “Redbeard” in capital letters.

 

Sherlock swallowed hard. He felt as if the room were falling away from him. _No. Not this._ “I’m not a child, anymore, Mycroft,” he said softly.

 

“No? You could have fooled me. What _was_ it this time, Sherlock? The suicide mission to Eastern Europe? Somehow, I don’t think that’s quite the _full_ picture.”

 

For a moment, Sherlock seriously considered strangling Mycroft. Mycroft must have seen the murderous impulse flash across his face, because he smirked. “You always _were_ so easy to read, Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock clenched his hands into fists and said nothing. Mycroft sighed, pocketing the little leather-bound book. “I’ve arranged for you to partake in an outpatient program. If you don’t attend, I will know.” With that, Mycroft swept from the room.

 

Sherlock hurled his still-full cup of tea at the door as it closed behind his brother, taking satisfaction in the cascade of boiling liquid and the sharp sound of shattering glass. He rested his head back against the chair, feeling more exhausted than he could ever remember feeling in his life.


	2. Chapter 2

John paced back and forth through his living room. It had been _days_ since he’d heard from Sherlock, who flatly refused to see him or Mary. _Something’s wrong. I know something’s wrong._ John sighed. Mary’s due date was approaching rapidly, and between his anxiety over the birth of his first child and his worry for Sherlock he felt ready to implode.

 

That evening, while he and Mary were eating dinner, frantic knocking at the front door propelled John down the hallway. He opened the door to see an extremely pale Mrs. Hudson, shaking on his doorstep.

 

“Mrs. Hudson? My God, are you alright?”

 

“N-no! John, it’s Sherlock—“

 

John felt as if his heart had plummeted into his stomach. He didn’t allow Mrs. Hudson to finish her sentence. Grabbing his coat, he shouted to Mary that he would be back later and followed Mrs. Hudson out into the street.

 

Sitting side by side with Mrs. Hudson in a cab, John attempted to question her. Silent tears were flowing down her face. She refused point-blank to answer any of his inquiries and finally John lapsed into agonized silence.

 

After what felt like an interminable amount of time, they arrived at 221B. John vaulted himself out of the cab and pushed into the flat, taking the stairs two at a time. Mrs. Hudson through muffled sobs fled into her own flat and slammed the door behind her.

 

The sight that greeted him when he entered Sherlock’s flat made him feel faint. Sherlock was lying on the couch, pale as death. A thin sheen of sweat coated his face and his eyes were glazed over. His breathing was labored and shallow. Beside him stood Billy Wiggins, looking deeply uncomfortable.

 

“Hello, John,” said Billy, shifting from foot to foot.

 

“What the hell is this?” John asked, his voice dangerously low.

 

John made to move to Sherlock’s side, but Sherlock at once began to protest. “Stay where you are, John!” he cried. John froze. Billy covered his face with his hands.

 

“Someone tell me right this bloody minute what’s going on,” John said.

 

Billy left Sherlock’s side and approached John. “He’s back on the cocaine. Someone sold him a laced batch. He’s having a bad reaction to—“

 

White hot fury overcame John and without thinking, he closed his hands around Billy’s throat. “I suppose you sold it to him, didn’t you!”

 

“No! No it wasn’t—“ Billy choked. Suddenly ashamed, John released him. He was breathing hard, and prickly hot panic had settled in his stomach.

 

“We have to get him to hospital,” John said.

 

Billy avoided John’s gaze. “He won’t let us. Something about Moriarty—doesn’t think it’s safe to leave the flat.”

 

“He’s bloody high! He doesn’t know what he’s on about!”

 

Suddenly, Sherlock croaked from the couch: “No, John. _You_ have to—treat me. Mycroft—will bring… whatever equipment you need. Moriarty—John, he’s behind this. You have-- to trust me.”

 

John stood rooted to the spot, completely lost. “I—Sherlock, I can’t treat you unless I know what was in the cocaine.”

 

 Billy cleared his throat. “I—I can get in touch with the dealer, Mr. Watson. I’ll figure out what it was laced with. He’ll just figure I’m another junkie, out for a fix.”

 

Sherlock stared at Billy for a moment. He nodded, pulling Billy close to him and mumbling a telephone number and a name. Billy raced out of the flat to make the call.

 

The moment Billy exited the flat, John slammed his fist into the wall. “Sherlock, for Christ’s sake—“

 

But Sherlock was suddenly sitting up, looking quite well. “Sorry, John. Couldn’t let Billy in on the secret. He’s a rubbish liar.”

 

John felt an enormous wave of relief followed by an impulse to murder Sherlock. “What in the _hell_ is going on?”

 

“Collecting data, John. No time to explain, you have to hide.”

 

“ _Hide?”_

 

The sound of sudden footsteps on the stairs interrupted them. Sherlock resumed his sickly composure. “ _Quickly!”_ he hissed.


	3. Chapter 3

John wedged himself behind Sherlock’s desk. He felt bloody ridiculous. The approaching footsteps grew louder then abruptly stopped. John heard the door to the flat creak open and risked peering around the edge of the desk. A thin balding man with an expression of utmost contempt on his narrow features entered the flat. He wore tattered clothes and looked considerably care-worn. Without hesitation, he approached the couch where Sherlock lay prone. 

“Sherlock Holmes,” the man sneered.

Sherlock turned to face his visitor. Once again, he assumed the look of a man on the brink of death. His face shone with perspiration and his body was racked with tremors. He took shallow, labored breaths. 

“Sebastian Moran,” Sherlock wheezed in reply. “I hoped you would come.”

“Did you?” Sebastian’s gray eyes glinted with malice.

Sherlock nodded wearily. “I—assume—that you received Billy’s-- message?” he croaked. 

Sebastian chuckled. “Did you really think that I would fall for that bumbling idiot’s idea of a trap? As if I would admit to lacing the cocaine over digital communication. I assume you already know what’s happening to you?”

Sherlock nodded feebly. “Fentanyl,” he rasped. 

“Very good! It really was too easy, you know. You can always count on the junkie to take things just a little too far.” 

Sebastian crouched down in front of the couch until his face was inches from Sherlock’s. Behind the desk, John’s hands clenched into fists. Sherlock returned his gaze steadily. 

“You see,” Sebastian continued mercilessly, “Everyone will assume your death was an accidental overdose from a bad batch of cocaine. Not a single person will suspect that it was murder. Not even if precious Molly Hooper performs an autopsy.”

At Molly’s name, John saw genuine alarm flit across Sherlock’s face. It did not escape Sebastian’s notice. “Yes, that’s right. I know all about her. Seems to me she was awfully involved in your miraculous survival.”

Sherlock shuddered but said nothing. Sebastian put a hand in Sherlock’s hair, pulling hard until the detective cried out in pain. “You’re dying, but there’s still time… still time for you to tell me… how did you make it off the rooftop while Jim didn’t?” 

A crooked half-grin flickered to life across Sherlock’s face. “Maybe he wasn’t as clever as you thought he was.”

Sebastian’s hand moved from Sherlock’s hair to close over his throat. “I think it’ll be best if I kill you now… it’s really too bad, you know. Jim had such marvelous plans for you. The final problem. I was supposed to finish his work… to burn the heart out of you. I suppose he didn’t count on how impatient I’d be to avenge his death… but, no matter. Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes.” 

Sebastian began choking Sherlock in earnest, at which point John could stand it no longer. He kicked the desk aside, causing Sebastian to jump in alarm, releasing Sherlock. He recovered his composure quickly, addressing John with a contemptuous sneer. “Ah… Sherlock’s little pet. Yes, Jim told me all about you. He told me you might make a nuisance of yourself. Well, John Watson, you must know already that your friend is dead.”

John opened his mouth to retort, but Sherlock beat him to it. “Oh now, I wouldn’t go that far… I’d say I haven’t quite reached my expiration date yet… Wouldn’t you agree, detective inspector?”

With that, Lestrade burst into 221B, holding his gun out in front of him, trained on Sebastian Moran.


	4. Chapter 4

“Who _was_ that, Sherlock?”

 

Sherlock sighed. “Moriarty’s right-hand man. Much as… you are to me, John. I suppose he was biding his time… lulling me into a false sense of security. Moriarty must have given Moran plans to put into effect if he never made it off the rooftop alive…Lacing my cocaine was sloppy, though, and not at all like Moriarty. I shouldn’t think that we’ve seen the end of this.”

 

John frowned. “But he’s been arrested.”

 

“Oh, yes. However, my little trap only bought us some time… Scotland Yard won’t be able to hold him. I think the legal term is ‘entrapment.’”

 

John paled. “You’re telling me he got himself arrested on purpose?”

 

Sherlock shrugged. “Moriarty did that once, remember?”

 

Silence fell between them for a moment. Then, John said, “So it was all fake, then?”

 

“What was?”

 

“You. Being high. The laced cocaine.”

 

Sherlock looked down. “It…wasn’t laced.”

 

John suddenly reached out for Sherlock’s hand, pulling his friend nearer and tugging up his shirtsleeve in one deft movement. The evidence of recent track marks made John let out a low hiss.

 

Sherlock sighed. “I had to, John. It was all part of the—“

 

“Don’t, Sherlock. You always have an excuse. Do you even understand—don’t you even _care_ that—“

 

“What?”

 

But John seemed incapable of saying more. “Call me when you’re done with this rubbish. I’m tired of watching you kill yourself. I’m going home.” He got to his feet, grabbed his coat, and left, slamming the door behind him.

 

Sherlock sighed, sinking back onto the couch. For over an hour, he barely moved at all. He was woken from his dark musings by the tell-tale knock of Mycroft at the door. Choosing to ignore him, Sherlock turned over on the couch, putting his back to the door.

 

Minutes later, a loud click told him that Mycroft had fetched Mrs. Hudson to unlock the door for him. “You haven’t been going to your outpatient program.”

 

“Fuck off, Mycroft.”

 

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “Did you have a row with Dr. Watson?”

 

Sherlock didn’t reply. Mycroft sighed, approaching his little brother with an outstretched hand. Sherlock looked murderous, but produced a crumpled piece of paper. Mycroft smoothed it out, scanning it quickly. “Well, this isn’t as bad as it might have been, I suppose. What _were_ you thinking of, Sherlock? Baiting Sebastian Moran with this ridiculous ruse? As if it were anything more than an excuse to keep up your drug habit.”

 

Sherlock looked up in surprise. “Yes, Sherlock. I know all about Moran… though his connection to Moriarty was unknown to me until recently. He’s been implicated in a number of crimes over the years, but never satisfactorily enough. It seems that he and Moriarty went to great lengths to make sure their respective trails of criminal activities never crossed over too much. Moran was his back-up in case something went wrong… and something _did_ go wrong on that rooftop, Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock glared at Mycroft. “I can handle Moran.”

 

“And how’s that, brother mine? By getting high and sulking in your flat? No. You need me.”

 

Sherlock refused to reply. Mycroft cleared his throat, saying, “John, Mary, Mrs. Hudson, Molly Hooper, and I will be taking it in turns to watch over you while you get clean. Molly’s shift starts in twenty minutes. Goodbye, brother dear.”

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know what you think! :)


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